


microcosm

by Thegaygumballmachine



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Dubcon kind of, F/F, experimental style tm, fiona topping from the bottom like a lot, magic!sex, many many drug mentions, morally reprehensible characters, obligatory fleetwood mac lyric shows up only once which i think is remarkable restraint to be honest, references to the actual stevie nicks' life are present, retroactive negotiations that dont work, this is not RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegaygumballmachine/pseuds/Thegaygumballmachine
Summary: "Clean is a myth," says Fiona. "You'll come back."
Relationships: Fiona Goode/Stevie Nicks
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	microcosm

**Author's Note:**

> because i really don't want to go to hell, i'd like to clarify that i'm not writing about the actual stevie nicks having witch sex with a fictional character. this is stevie as she is established in the canon of american horror story, who is different in a few ways but most notably in the fact that she's an actual witch who can do actual magic. her name and likeness are used to tell a fictional story with fictional attributes. 
> 
> also, i simp for jessica lange, and that's kind of the long and short of why this exists at all.

It’s the fall of 1992. 

(September. Brisk and cold and disgustingly homely in New Orleans, which is what it always is and what Fiona always hates about it.)

The house is quiet — not empty, but quiet, calm for them. They hold court over the living room because they take up the most space, loud and lively and completely out of their minds on white. The room is hazy, warm, and Stevie is plunking out a tune on an out of tune piano, watching the gray sky outside. 

“I do _hate_ being back here,” says Fiona, desperately dreamy. “Why couldn’t we have gone to Paris?”

“It’s good here,” says Stevie, distractedly. “It feels good here. Personal, right?”

She scratches a song out on a napkin while Fiona sways like a leaf in the wind, not dancing exactly _(Jesus, no)_ but following the line of smoke pluming from her cigarette. It’s a polaroid moment; there are cars passing under the big picture windows and Fiona starts to count them in her head, taking a drag on every fifth. 

“Fuck me,” she says, low on the nicotine. The mix in her system brightens her up from the inside, light glowing out. The air heats up around them and Stevie’s watching her in a way she knows but can’t see, hair prickling at her neck. 

“Literally or metaphorically?”

“Pick your poison,” says Fiona. “I’m happy to wax philosophic, you know. A Supreme sees a lot of shit in her life.”

“Sure she does,” says Stevie. “Everyone does, that’s the curse of it. C’mere.”

So she does. 

——

Her hands are in Stevie’s hair and Stevie’s fingers are inside her, harsh and careful and so _, so_ good, sparking across her nerves with the drugs and two fingers of strong bourbon. She can hardly breathe and it’s perfect, teasing into overwhelm, the heat and pressure and pleasure of it threatening the edges of her vision. 

“Oh, _baby_ ,” she says, staring sightlessly into the room at large, and Stevie bites at the tendon in her neck, and she laughs. “ _Shit._ ”

“Not baby,” says Stevie, lightly, full of air. “Sweetheart if you _have_ to.”

“He call you that?”

“Don’t talk to me about him while I’m doing this. Or at all, ever."

“It’s your game, lover,” Fiona concedes, arching her neck into a lengthy gasp as Stevie moves her fingers _just so._ She mouths something in Latin and resituates herself, her nails digging into Stevie’s shoulders and her knees into the padding of the piano bench. 

It’s a simple spell — transference, redistribution. Stevie curses and her technique changes, flickers into more knowing, pointed movement. They both feel it in different ways, the magic and the reach of it. Fiona’s hips roll.

“You like that,” she breathes. “You like it when I make you do that.”

“Fi,” says Stevie, “I seriously need you to shut up.”

“Afraid you’ll blow it?”

“Afraid of something, alright.”

It comes up to a point for both of them; slick circles and steady friction, a quick and dirty version of the same dance. 

Stevie keeps her eyes closed. Fiona doesn’t. 

——

“I never know what you’ll do until you do it,” says Stevie, bemused. 

“Isn’t that half the fun?”

She’s lighting up anew, mussed-up hair and a run in her tights; Stevie’s back to her new lyrics, underlining with such force that she tears the napkin half apart. 

“Sure, until it’s scary.”

She says it so casually. Fiona stares, dazed and lazy, following waves of blonde. _Afterglow_ is a shade of blush and that feels entirely appropriate for this conversation. 

“I wouldn’t do anything to you that I wasn’t absolutely sure you wanted,” she says. 

“And how do you go about finding out what I want?”

 _I look,_ she doesn’t say. _I cheat._

“I watch you.”

“You’re watching me right now.”

“What you want right now is for me to understand something.”

“Do you?”

“This is terribly tedious, _sweetheart_.”

“So tell me to calm down,” says Stevie. 

She hasn’t raised her voice at all — there isn’t even any anger there. A light, buoyant dialogue while she pins Fiona to the wall with an accusation she refuses to actually make. She looks up and Fiona takes a drag, holds it a little too long. 

“Calm down,” she says, slowly. Methodical. Dipped in magic. The tension in Stevie’s shoulders drains away and she sighs, leans back to enjoy it. 

“Yeah,” she says. “You know what I mean.”

She does; she wishes she didn’t.

——

“Clean is a myth,” says Fiona. “You’ll come back.”

“Probably.”

 _You need me,_ she doesn’t say because she doesn’t believe it. _I need you,_ she doesn’t say because she can’t. 

She pushes — it’s her strongest trait, stretching things until they just _explode_ , guts and blood strewn all over Ms. Robicheaux’s’ shiny varnished hardwood. Stevie takes a lot (and then even more, sometimes) because people tell her to, because they say she can. 

“Take care of yourself,” she says, low, breath hot in Stevie’s ear. She means it, kind of. 

_See you,_ Stevie doesn’t say. 

“I’ll try,” she whispers, hoarse on it.

_(You better put your kingdom up for sale.)_


End file.
